Finding the Rainbow
by Black Rook
Summary: The formation of the ATF Team Seven - from the very beginning. Written for mag7bigbang 2010.
1. Chapter 1

_Notes_: First of all, many thanks to MOG for creating that wonderful sandbox, and to all the other authors who have kept ATF Universe alive and well! After hundreds of stories it's nearly impossible to create something new when writing in this AU, especially the beginning story, so if you recognize some idea or plot twist as yours – you're probably right :). Either 'great minds think alike', or I liked that idea so much it just became a part of my personal ATF fanon. In either case, please take it as a compliment :).

_Special thanks to __Tiffany Pena for beta-reading!_

**Finding the Rainbow**

"Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare for takeoff."

Orrin Travis, the Assistant Director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives in Denver, fastened his seatbelt and watched through the window as the lights of DC slowly faded away. He'd spent the last week in the capital enduring endless meetings; this latest round of accountability a result of the last epic fail of the ATF as a whole. Strangely enough, most of the meetings were dedicated to searching for solutions and not to finger pointing, one of those possible solutions was on Travis's mind now.

It had been decided that several special teams would be created and based in different major cities across the country; self-sufficient, effective teams capable of operating throughout the US. One of those future teams would be based in Colorado, and Travis had 6 months to organize the paperwork, hire employees, and get it started. Six month was a rather short period of time in which to accomplish such a task, but, fortunately, the Denver AD knew where he wanted to start. Amongst his agents was a man perfect for leading the new team; if he accepted the position, that is.

Chris Larabee, the man in question, was a former Navy SEAL and he used to work as a homicide detective for Denver PD. Travis had heard of him while Larabee had been working in Homicide, but their first face-to-face meeting had happened under very tragic circumstances. The Larabee car bombing had shook all of Denver's law enforcement personnel; firstly, because it was a fellow officer who'd been targeted, and secondly, because his wife and son had been killed instead. Every agency in the area had been eager to offer their help, and, since it had been a bombing, the ATF had had a valid reason to get involved. The Denver branch had gotten lucky; one of Travis's agents had found similarities between that bombing and two others, a distinctive signature that had led to one man. They'd managed to catch the bomber, but alas, it'd turned out that he was only a paid lackey, and he had refused to give up the name of his employer**.** He was sent to prison, and not long after, had been killed in his cell. The case had then gone cold. After that, Larabee had left the DPD, and though Travis had sometimes heard about the man (and nothing too pleasant either), he hadn't seen him until five months later, when Chris Larabee had come to his office, looking for a job.

_Orrin raised his eyes from the application lying on his desk, to the man sitting on the other side of it._ _This Chris Larabee, dressed all in black, didn't look like the man Orrin had sometimes seen at law enforcement social gatherings well before the tragedy, but he did look much better than he had during the last time they had met. But Orrin had to ask._

_"Why?"_

_"I won't lie to you, sir," Larabee answered, straightening himself up. "I've crawled out of a dark pit recently and I need a job to keep me from falling back into it."_

_Travis liked the man's bluntness and, well, he could understand the reasoning. In fact, he understood better than most; his own son, Stephen, a leading journalist for the Denver Post, was murdered 'in the line of duty' a couple of years ago, and it had been her job that had kept Stephen's widow, Mary, from falling apart, and himself too, if he was being honest. And they were luckier than Larabee had been, they still had Billy__._

_"Why the ATF?"_

_Larabee gave a half-shrug _accompanied_ by a half-smile. "You left a good impression."_

_Travis hid his chuckle by studying the credentials in front of him. They were good, more than that, they were impressive. Larabee had potential, if he held himself together he might make a great agent . Travis felt he ought to give the man a chance; especially since they had failed to catch those responsible for his loss._

_"I'm approving your application, Mr. Larabee. Welcome on board, Agent."_

Now, two and a half years later, Chris Larabee still worked in the ATF and he had earned as many commendations as he'd received reprimands. He worked alone, without a team or a partner, but he got the job done; the rookies were in awe of him, the brass, save for Travis, were constantly annoyed with him, and his fellow agents either admired or hated him – sometimes both. Larabee got results, but Travis knew the man was capable of much more than that. He wasn't just a good soldier, detective and agent, he was an excellent officer, a talented strategist, and a born leader. A man didn't just lose those qualities**.** Travis knew Chris Larabee was his best chance for getting a functioning team. The question was, did the man want the responsibility?

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

While the Assistant Director of the Denver ATF was in the air thinking about his most unorthodox agent, said agent was driving home after finishing work on the biggest of his current cases. Nearly exhausted, Chris had decided to leave the paperwork for Monday, and was halfway through Denver when he realized that he was hungry enough to eat a horse and the fridge at the ranch was most likely empty. Not in the mood for shopping or cooking, Chris began to pay attention to his surroundings – he didn't know the neighborhood all that well, but it wasn't the worst part of town yet, so there should be some passable places to eat. Soon he noticed the sign of a Mexican bar**,** hoping they served something besides tequila, he found a place to park nearby and went inside.

The bar wasn't crowded**,** those who came for a quick drink after work must have already left and those who intended to celebrate through the night hadn't yet shown up. All in all, there was one harmless drunk at one of the far tables, an African-American couple sitting at the bar chatting with the bartender, and three kids, who were obviously enjoying their first taste of being legal. Satisfied that there were no signs of imminent trouble, Chris took a table in the corner (facing the entrance, back to the wall) and asked for a menu. The food selection wasn't all that varied, but he came here to eat, not dine, so Chris ordered the entrée with the biggest amount of meat in it, and a beer to polish it off with.

The food proved good, and Chris was in the middle of finishing his meal when a large group entered the bar, disrupting the quiet. There were at least a dozen men of different ages in the bunch; they didn't exactly look like gang members, but they were no respectable citizens either. Damn, Chris sighed, he'd had too long of a week to want to get involved in a bar brawl on a Friday night**.** At least there was still a chance that he'd have enough time to finish his meal and leave before those hotheads started something – and they would definitely start something**.** But by the time Chris was ready to pay his check, trouble was already brewing – one of the 'bad guys' was flirting with the woman at the bar, totally ignoring her obvious displeasure. Of course her companion interfered, and then the rest of the wannabe Romeo's friends began to pay attention as well…

"Call the police, girl," Chris said to his waitress. "Things are about to get ugly."

She hurried away, and Chris stood up, appraising the situation. Not good. The men were far from sober, and they clearly wanted some entertainment; him announcing his lawman status**,** or even drawing his gun**,** would likely only make matters worse. And even if the man they attacked knew how to handle himself in a fight**,** and it looked like he did, the odds weren't exactly promising**.** Suddenly something made Chris look to the bar's entrance**.** There was a man there, one who'd just come in and didn't have enough sense to immediately bolt right back out again. The worn boots, faded jeans, fringed-leather jacket and Texas A&M t-shirt just screamed native Texan, the only thing missing was a wide-brimmed cowboy hat**.** The man's timing was either perfect or awful, but before Chris could finish this thought, he met the newcomer's eyes. The man nodded almost imperceptibly – and the odds went to hell.

When the police finally arrived, the three of them had the situation under control; nevertheless, everyone involved had to pay a visit to the nearest precinct. Fortunately, the officer on duty remembered Chris from his days with the PD, and all possible misunderstanding were cleared up quickly. The arrested hotheads clearly wished they'd picked another bar after they learned that they had attacked a C.S.I. expert from Kansas City, who was in Denver to testify on a case, and that the men who had helped him were a Federal Agent and a US Marshal. Altogether, the three of them spent less than half an hour in the precinct and another hour in the nearest bar, one frequented by policemen and thus 'much safer on a Friday night'. Actually, Chris would have preferred to just go home, but Nathan Jackson, the forensic criminalist, and his lovely lady, Rain, had insisted that they at least owed a cup of coffee to the two men who had risked so much to help them. So they had all relaxed together enjoying coffee and talking about nothing in particular**.** To Chris it'd felt like they'd known each other for ages**,** not just hours.

It was close to midnight when the couple drove Chris and Marshal Vin Tanner back to the Mexican bar where their vehicles were parked, hopefully still in one piece. Chris's Ram looked okay, but for some reason he was reluctant to just climb in and drive away**.** He watched as Tanner, who indeed proved to be from Texas though he was now based out of Cheyenne**,** went to his car a couple of spaces further away, opened the door and then slammed it shut with a curse. He continued swearing as he came back.

"What's wrong?" Chris asked when the man was on the other side of the Ram.

Tanner shrugged. "Just remembered what I needed at that bar. You by chance know the number for a reasonable towing company? The Jeep broke down again."

"Ah." With an understanding smile, Chris opened his cell, found the right number, pressed the call button and handed the cell to the other man. With a thankful nod, Tanner took the cell and arranged for his car to be towed to some repair shop, Chris didn't recognize the name.

"Thanks," Tanner gave the cell back. "Maybe you know a number to call a cab as well?"

"I have a better idea, Tanner. I'll give you a lift."

"Nah," the lanky Texan shook his head. "I don't want to put you out, I'm staying out of town."

"Where?"

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then answered: "The Wells ranch."

Chris laughed briefly. "Get in the car, Cowboy. I live on the next ranch over."

With a mischievous look that promised retribution for the moniker, Tanner climbed into the passenger seat.

They drove in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, not just a polite one. When they arrived at the driveway of Nettie Well's house, Chris, somewhat to his surprise, heard himself saying: "There's a lake at the border of our properties, about three miles east of here. I'll try to catch my breakfast there on Sunday; would be glad for some company."

It was too dark to read Tanner's expression, but he answered casually: "I'll think about it, Larabee. Thanks for the ride, have a good night."

"Yeah, say 'hi' to Nettie for me."

"I will," with that the Marshal left the car and walked towards the house. Chris watched him for a moment then drove home and, for once, slept like the dead till the next morning.


	2. Chapter 2

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

On Monday, Chris Larabee came to work early, rested and refreshed, and even the endless paperwork didn't sway his good mood. He was halfway through writing the report on his last case, when the workday officially started and the phone on his desk rang.

"Larabee."

"Morning, Chris."

That was Shelley, Travis's secretary. Did that mean that the AD was back from DC? "Morning, Shel. Is he back?"

"Yes, and he wants to see you at 11 a.m.**.**"

"Whatever for?"

"I have no idea, Chris, honest. I haven't even seen him myself yet, only a bunch of notes."

"Okay, I'll be there. See you." Chris hung up and sighed. An unexpected summons from one's boss was never a good sign, and the fact that Travis had just come back from a big meeting with _his_ bosses didn't improve the situation at all. Well, Chris still had almost two hours before the meeting, so he'd better get that report done before Travis saddled him with some new big headache.

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

The phone on Travis's desk rang at exactly 10:59 a.m.

"Sir, Agent Larabee is here."

"Send him in, Shel."

Chris entered with a wary expression on his face; clearly he didn't expect anything good from this meeting. Funny, because Travis himself felt nervous like a schoolboy in the principal's office, and he was the boss here.

"Welcome back, sir. You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I did," Travis got up to shake his agent's hand, then sat back down. "Have a seat."

Chris sat, and Orrin took a moment to once again look over the papers concerning his new unique team; he still didn't know how to present the idea to Larabee. He must have kept silent longer than he thought, because Chris asked softly:

"Sir, something wrong?"

"No." Well, better take the bull by the horns. "Agent Larabee, I have a proposition for you. I have orders to start a special ATF task force, based out of Denver, and I want you to lead it." Okay, now he can say he saw something very few people ever did - a shocked Chris Larabee. Travis pushed the papers towards the other man, adding:

"Look these over and give it some thought, Chris, please."

"I will, sir." Chris flipped through the papers a little, then asked: "The men who will make up the team?"

Not exactly a clear question, but Travis knew Larabee well enough to understand what he meant. "You can recruit whomever you deem worthy, as long as it's within the law. I may have some candidates for you, but the final call will always be yours as head agent."

Chris nodded.

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

Chris sat in his office, eyeing the folder Travis had given him. He'd read it twice already, and damn, but it sounded interesting. A year ago, hell, maybe even last week, Chris would have said 'no' right off to anything that included a leadership position. After failing his own family so totally, he'd been sure he would never take responsibility for other people again**;** he even refused to have a partner anymore. But now something had definitely changed. Maybe that brawl on Friday had reminded him of more than simply what it felt like to have someone at your back in a fight; yes, it had just been a stupid bar brawl, but still…

Or maybe that quiet fishing trip with Tanner on Sunday morning had balanced something inside himself, something that had been unbalanced for a long time**. **Or maybe, just maybe, enough time had passed for him to have finally started healing. Or perhaps it was his conscience and his sense of duty, his father's advice kept repeating in his head. '_If something needs to be done, son,_' the tough Air-Force Colonel used to say, '_do it yourself. Because no one else will_.' And that team sure looked like something that needed to be done.

Twenty minutes later, Chris was listing the skills he'd need in the team for it to be effective and self-sufficient. Finding all of those skills in only eight men (that was the maximum number permitted in the future unit, leader included) would be a challenge, but Chris felt he was up to it. But first of all, he needed at least one man on the team whom he trusted unconditionally, both as a person and as a professional**.** He needed someone who wouldn't be afraid to address weak points in any plan**, **but would also be willing to do his part once the plan was approved; he needed a second-in-command. In other words, he needed Buck Wilmington. Chris settled back in his chair and allowed the memories to flow through his mind.

They had met during their first year in the Navy, and it had been mutual antipathy from first sight. They'd been at each other's throats when allowed for several months, until one disaster of a mission; the results of said mission were several people dead, Chris receiving a promotion much earlier than he expected to, and Buck becoming his partner, 2IC and best friend. They had been through some really bad shit together since then, and it had only strengthened their friendship, so when Chris had finally had enough of the Navy brass and their hypocrisy and left the service, Buck had followed. They'd graduated from the Police Academy together, and for the first time in its history, Denver PD had agreed to allow two formal rookies to partner with each other; DPD hadn't ever had cause to regret this decision. Buck had been the best man in his wedding, had been Adam's Godfather, and a very devoted one at that, and it had been Buck who had literally kept Chris alive after the tragedy.

Buck had kept him together during the investigation, and then, after the case had gone cold, Buck had hauled him home from countless bars, kept him from drowning in his own vomit, and stopped him from killing anyone or getting himself killed. Buck had been there despite all of the attacks from Chris – both verbal and physical **-** and though Chris's memory of those days was still vague, he was pretty sure there had been plenty enough to run the man off many times over. His downward spiral had lasted for months; until, after one night Chris had no intentions of ever recollecting, he'd decided to stop and get his shit together. And Buck had been there to help then too. However, as soon as he'd been sure Chris wasn't a threat to others or himself, Buck had left. Maybe he'd finally had enough of Chris's shit**,** or maybe he'd just needed to grieve himself, and around Chris that was impossible; maybe**…**anyway, he'd left and Chris had been glad he had. The blond had needed to learn how to deal with the memories and nightmares, and he had needed to do it alone.

Now, two and a half years later, it looked like he was ready to have Buck in his life once more, though there was a big chance that Buck wanted nothing to do with him. But even if the man refused the job offer, some things needed to be said between them – and the sooner the better. Chris hadn't actually contacted his friend since he'd left, but he'd kept tabs on him; he knew Buck had transferred to the Albuquerque Police Department and that the gregarious man still worked there. So, he picked up his phone and booked a ticket for an early flight leaving tomorrow for New Mexico.

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

It was close to noon when Chris arrived at the Albuquerque Police Station where Buck worked. He spotted a grizzled sergeant manning the front desk and headed over to ask him about his friend's location.

"You just missed Detective Wilmington," the older policeman said. "But he's most likely over at Lester's café. One of the waitresses there is his current love interest."

'_Well, you can always count on Buck,' _Chris thought, asking for directions to the restaurant.

Indeed, once Chris entered the café, he could hear Buck laying on the charm. As he moved farther into the seating area he could see the Casanova sitting at one of the tables, keeping a rather pretty brunette in a uniform entertained at his side. The flirtatious man was working his trademark Wilmington magic on her. Chris watched them with amusement; damn, but he'd missed this show. Finally, the girl was called away by another customer, and Chris stepped into Buck's line of sight.

"Afternoon, Buck. Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Chris, you old war dog!" In a second, Buck was on his feet and grabbing Chris in a bear hug. Chris, who'd half expected (and in his opinion highly deserved) a punch on the jaw, felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders.

"Easy, big fella. Folks talk."

"So let them," Buck answered, but let Chris go and pointed at the seat across from him as he returned to his own chair. Chris sat down, and Buck motioned for the waitress to come back. "So pard, what are you doing here?"

There were several answers to this question, but Chris decided to begin with the simplest. If Buck accepted the invitation, there would be plenty of time to say those other things later, if he didn't… well, he'd cross that bridge if he came to it. "Got a job proposition for you."

"Huh?"

"Travis wants me to form a new special team within the ATF. I need a surveillance expert, explosives specialist and second-in-command. You interested?"

Carrie, the waitress, came back at that very moment, with all of the perfect timing of those in her profession. While she was taking Chris's order, Buck somehow managed to overcome the shock of Chris seeking him out and offering him a job out of the blue. He forced himself to think, to really consider, whether or not he wanted to work with Chris again. The details didn't matter - an ATF special unit or a knitting club - as long as Chris was in charge, the rest didn't matter at all.

Buck Wilmington knew he'd been a good soldier and that he was a good detective on his own, but he also knew he was much better when working at Chris Larabee's side. Hell, both of them were much more effective together than they were apart; Sarah had even called them 'coherent sources' once, a term from Physics, meaning together they created much more havoc than the sum of their separate efforts. And damn it, he had missed that synchronism on the job, just as he had missed his old friend. So yes, he wanted to work with Chris again, but the question was, was there a "Chris" inside the man sitting across the table from him at the moment? Neither the self-destructive force of personified anger, nor the empty shell he had finally left in Denver two and half years ago, were his friend Chris Larabee.

So, Buck listened to Chris explain how the future team would function and the role he would play in it, if he chose to take the offer. Then heasked Larabee about the way the ATF worked and about past cases, pretending real hard that a little catching up was all they needed at the moment. All the while, he was trying to find at least a glimpse of his old friend in the blond ATF agent. And what he saw and heard gave him hope. Of course, things would never be the way they used to be, and he wasn't asking for that, but maybe they could start something new. Something good.

Automatically giving a warm smile to Carrie as she brought them the check, he waited 'til she was out of earshot before musing aloud:

"I guess the women of Denver are feeling mighty lonely by now…"

"I'm afraid they are," Chris answered, keeping his voice serious.

"So I've got to save some lonely souls now, don't I? I'm in, Chris, on one condition."

"Yeah?"

"You take care of the transfer paperwork. I had enough of that shit last time."

The grin on Chris's face was familiar, and that was gratifying. "Deal."


	3. Chapter 3

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

"Damn it, I should have stayed a simple cop," Orrin Travis mumbled, entering his office. With a compassionate smile, Shelly offered him a glass of water and a couple of pills. She always had them handy whenever he had to attend one or another political meeting. '_Good girl.'_ He thanked her with a nod, taking the pills as she asked innocently:

"Maybe you should hire someone special just for visiting the mayor's office, sir?"

"I'll definitely think about it, Shel," he answered, as usual. "What happened here while I was wasting my time there?"

"A pile of papers, waiting for your signature," Shelly pointed at the 'To Sign' folder, "nothing important; the DA's office sent the testifying schedule for the next couple of weeks; a final report on the Sanders case was submitted; and Agent Larabee called, asking to see you when it's convenient."

Travis sighed. He had actually been expecting to hear from Chris the next morning, and he couldn't say if an early answer was a good, or bad, sign.

"Call Larabee, tell him I'm waiting for him," he told Shelly and, taking the 'To Sign' folder with him, went into his room.

Ten minutes later Chris came in, wearing his usual unreadable expression. You could never tell what Chris Larabee thought at any given moment, not unless he wanted you to know; one of the reasons he was such a good agent. The quality Travis appreciated most about the man, though, was that he never beat around the bush.

"I'm accepting your offer, sir. It will be an honor."

It took the AD some effort, not to show the relief he felt at that, and he answered just as seriously:

"I'm very glad to hear that, Chris. I hope we'll create something worthy together." They shook, and Orrin motioned Chris to a seat. "Have you thought about the qualities you'll need in your men yet?"

"Yes, sir, I have. I wanted to ask what paperwork I require to transfer Detective Wilmington over from Albuquerque PD?"

Well, that wasn't really surprising; in fact, it was almost a given. Travis remembered Wilmington, Larabee's partner from the Navy and DPD, his shadow and anchor during the investigation into the Larabee family murders. The fact that he was the first person Chris thought of to invite was somehow reassuring, meaning the once depressed man did take the future team seriously.

"Leave his information with Shelly, I'll start the necessary procedures. I take it he's agreed?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"Do you have any ideas for the rest of the positions?"

"A few, but I haven't given them much thought yet."

"I see, maybe I should reassign your current cases?"

"No need, sir. I'll wrap them up in a week."

"Good. There won't be anything new until at least the core of the team is formed, so you can focus on the head-hunting."

Chris gave a lopsided smile; Travis found a thin folder on his desk and pushed it towards his agent. "Here. There are some names within that might interest you. I'll make sure you have high enough clearance to request full dossiers on them, or anyone you'd like – within reason, of course."

Chris nodded, grabbed the folder and stood up, correctly assuming that the conversation was over for now.

"And Chris?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Good luck."

Another nod and half-smile, and Larabee left.

"Good luck," Travis repeated in a whisper, and then mused louder: "What the hell haveI gotten myself into?"

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

Chris did as he had intended and finished off his cases as soon as possible**.** It was rather late when he finally had a moment to relax in his office and take out Travis's folder with names. And though he dutifully ran through the list, his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Chris Larabee wasn't a superstitious man, he'd never believed in signs and omens, but now his mind kept returning to the meeting in the bar on Friday. His inner voice, the sarcastic one, was mercilessly mocking him for that, but he did have rational reasons for thinking about these men, didn't he?

The future unit needed its own forensic expert, in Chris's opinion. Of course, the ATF had well equipped labs with good specialists downstairs, but Chris needed someone with the same priorities who wouldn't be overloaded with dozens of other cases. At the very least, he needed someone able to translate when those kids in the white labcoats began talking a mile a minute in a language where only the articles were left from plain English.

Now, though he was a forensic scientist, Nathan Jackson certainly didn't look like just a laboratory rat. He'd given off an air of someone with field experience, which was a good thing as Chris didn't want anyone without it on the team. Justifying himself this way, Chris logged into the system and requested Jackson's file. And, before he could think better of it, he also requested the file on one Vincent Tanner, US Marshal.

'_And what reason do you have for that?_' that irritating little voice asked. Chris sighed. All he could tell about Tanner, so far, was that the man was good at hand-to-hand combat, moved soundlessly, and was a damn good fisherman. Nothing extraordinary, except for the strange confidence Chris felt in his presence, confidence that his back was covered. After all, there was no harm in looking into the file, was there? Just out of curiosity.

Meanwhile, Jackson's file was out of the printer, so Chris began reading it.

Oh. Definitely not a simple lab rat. A medic in the Army for several years, decorated even; a B.S. degree in biology with a minor in chemistry; currently, working as a crime scene investigator for the Kansas City PD, specializing in Incendiary Forensics. His record was spotless; he even had several commendations. Well. '_Maybe it was time to start believing in signs?__'_

Apart from the general stuff, like fingerprints and matching bullets to guns, the ATF mostly dealt with strange liquids and explosives, which meant Chemistry and Incendiary Forensics (and though Buck was your guy when you needed to diffuse a bomb or create one from a couple of drinking straws and a plastic bottle, the restoration of one from burned remnants wasn't his forte). And emergency medical training was really an advantage; Chris hadn't thought about it before, but he remembered a few situations, both in the DPD and the ATF, when an ambulance was just a minute too late, or when it was too damn dangerous for civilian paramedics. So, Nathan Jackson had two of the skills from Chris's list plus one bonus skill, and, besides, Chris had liked the man.

He couldn't recall if Jackson had mentioned the case he'd been in Denver for, but a quick search found the answer. Chris whistled. He'd heard of the case, it was a really big one – no wonder Jackson had been stuck in Denver. There was a chance he still was, so Chris decided to have lunch in the court house cafeteria the next day. If the man was still needed in court, thenChris would find him during the break; if not, he'd contact him in Kansas City. Of course, it looked like Nathan Jackson had a good career there, and it was possible he wouldn't want to start anew in what looked like an experimental unit, but for some reason that didn't worry Chris.

Having made a decision and formulated a plan about Jackson, Chris reached for Tanner's file.

Another one with a military background; he enlisted at 18, served in the Rangers…. Interesting, most of his Army record was classified, save for the list of commendations (impressive for someone so young) and a description of his official skills: weapons specialist, sharpshooter, and tracker. Again, two hits and one bonus: wonderful. Also, a degree in Criminal Justice, no less. Better and better. Honorably discharged at 24; the character reference from his last CO was present. After reading it Chris suddenly felt a big déjà vu; it took him a moment to realize that his own final reference from the Navy looked almost the same, save for the paragraph about leadership abilities. Funny.

But back to the file; seems he was a bounty hunter after the Army for a little over a year, and, despite the rather short stint, Tanner had brought in some really big fish. No wonder the Marshalls were eager to take him in. His record with them made Chris chuckle again – list of commendations, list of reprimands - very much like Chris's own record with the ATF, not that he'd actually read it. Well, it looked like his gut was telling him the right thing; with such impressive skills, diverse background and experience under Tanner's belt, Chris didn't need to convince his sarcastic inner voice of anything anymore. The question, though, was how to find the Marshall?

Vin Tanner hadn't left any phone numbers with Chris, and the only one in his file was the number to his Marshall's office in Cheyenne. For some reason, Chris didn't want to contact him through work, most likely because he didn't want to involve any officials before he talked to the man himself. So that just left Nettie Wells.

The Texan hadn't said what exactly his relation to Nettie was, but she had been a social worker for more than forty years, so it wasn't that hard to guess, especially when no family was mentioned in Tanner's file. However, he had said that he visited her regularly, so it was likely she had his contact info. This, of course, didn't mean that she'd be willing to share them with Chris – she was a tough old lady and could be quite protective. He'd just have to convince her he meant no harm, but rather exactly the opposite.

Chris glanced at the clock – it was already late, and by the time he'd get home it would be indecently late. But, like most ranchers, Nettie was an early bird, so he'd just pay her a visit tomorrow, on his way to work. Maybe he'd get lucky, and get not just Tanner's number but a few homemade cookies as well.

Laughing at himself and his plans for the next morning, Chris put the papers in his safe, shut the computer down and left the office.


	4. Chapter 4

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

If Nettie Wells was surprised upon seeing Chris Larabee at her door at 7 a.m. on Thursday morning, she didn't show it. It wasn't the biggest surprise of her life, after all, so ten minutes later they were sitting in her kitchen, drinking coffee with fresh baked rolls and talking about weather and horses, just like in the good old times.

Actually, Nettie had never been close to Larabee himself, but to his late wife, Sarah. The two of them had quickly become friends; that friendship had only deepened once the younger woman had gotten pregnant and had her boy. Nettie had always been willing to help the new mother out with advice, or as an extra pair of hands. She had also babysat Adam so Sarah could get some chores done or the couple could spend some time alone.

Nettie was no stranger to loss, and yet the tragic death of the boy and his mother had hurt her deeply. It had also hurt to see what the husband and father was doing to himself in his grief. He had spiraled down a dark path for a long spell, but Chris Larabee had been back on track for some time now. However, something must have led him to her door now after such a long period without a visit.

"So, Chris," she asked, refilling the coffee mugs. "What can I do for you?"

"I want to have a talk with Vin Tanner, Nettie. I'd appreciate it if you'd give me his contact information, or if you prefer, you could just tell him I'm looking for him."

"Whatever for?" Nettie asked, immediately on the defensive. Of course, Vin told her repeatedly that he was a big boy now and could look after himself; that was true, he was a grown man now, and one who'd survived some terrible things, but she still sometimes saw that skinny teenager she'd discovered sleeping in her barn. Vin had told her he'd met Larabee in town, but he had omitted the specifics, and with his big heart and talent for trouble who knows what he might have gotten involved in…

Chris looked at her, as if weighing how much he could share, and then answered:

"I have a job proposition for him."

That was a relief, but she needed more details; Chris must have understood because he continued after a pause**. **

"AD Travis wants me to start a new team within the ATF; I want Vin on this team."

"You decided that after one fishing trip?"

Surprisingly, he chuckled. "Actually, yes. But I also read his file, Nettie, and he is what I need."

Well, it was always nice to hear someone else recognizing Vin's worth; and it sounded like Larabee was just as interested in the man himself as he was in his skill set. There was a chance Vin would accept the offer. It would be good to have him back home; and though Vin put out a good front, Nettie knew he wasn't happy in Cheyenne, and didn't actually feel like he belonged with the Marshalls. Chris Larabee was a good man, and, as far as she knew, Orrin Travis was one also, maybe they were just what Vin needed.

"I'll tell him you have something to talk to him about. I can't promise anything more."

"That will be enough, Nettie. Thank you."

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

"Ladies and gentlemen, this court will return to session at 2 p.m.," the gavel pounded down and a crowd of witnesses, reporters**,** and gapers began to pour from the room, all in search of fresh air and food.

Nathan Jackson was one of the last people to leave the room, having been delayed by one of the DA's assistants; the hall was almost empty when he exited, save for some vaguely familiar figure propping up the wall not far from the doors. Oh, he sure looked different in a suit, but it was definitely Chris Larabee, the ATF agent who'd helped him last week. The man must have noticed him, because he unstuck from the wall and took a couple of steps in Nathan's direction.

"Good day, Agent Larabee," Nathan greeted, outstretching his hand. "Are you testifying today, too?"

"No," Larabee answered as he shook his hand. "I just wanted to discuss something with you, Mr. Jackson, if you have the time."

Nathan shrugged. "I have about an hour. Maybe you know a decent place where we can have lunch other than here?"

Chris snorted. "I hate to have to say it, but the local cafeteria is the best place on the block. The rumor is, it's some kind of conspiracy. "

"Yeah, I heard that, but had hoped they were pulling my leg."

Larabee shook his head, and together the men went downstairs to buy lunch.

Larabee's offer was…surprising, to say the least, and more than a little flattering. Nathan had mentioned the bar incident, and the names of his saviors, to his Denver colleagues and he'd already heard enough second hand information about Chris Larabee to be impressed. The new unit sure sounded incredibly tempting too, a real chance to make a difference, but it had taken Nathan a lot of time and effort to build his career in the Kansas City PD, to earn his place; was a position on Larabee's team worth the risk of starting everything anew?

And then there was Rain to consider. They'd met in high school and had quickly become friends, being the only ones in their class actually interested in studying more than in hanging out. They'd parted ways when Rain had won a medical scholarship and he had opted to join the Army, but had stayed in touch – first through letters and then by e-mail, following each other's studies, careers and relationships. This was the first time since school where they'd been able to meet in person while both single, and Nathan found himself wondering if maybe it was time to try for something more than friendship. And that would definitely be easier if they lived in the same city, but was that a good enough reason for accepting a new job?

"I'm honored by your offer, Agent Larabee," Nathan said before his silence would become impolite.

"It's Chris."

The forensic scientist nodded. "Okay, Chris. I can honestly say that I'm interested, but I need to think on it."

"I understand that it's a major change, and I won't demand an answer right away. How much time do you need?"

Nathan thought about it; if everything went as planned, he would finish his duties in court today, and fly home tomorrow. And such decisions should be reached at home. "A week will be good, if that's possible?"

"Of course, there's no rush – yet," Chris grinned and handed Jackson a card. "Feel free to contact me with any questions you might have."

"Thank you, I will."

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

Saturday morning found Chris in his barn, as usual; he'd just begun working when he was startled by familiar Texan drawl:

"Need a hand, Cowboy?"

Chris jumped and almost reached for his missing gun before he realized it was a certain US Marshall standing at the entrance.

"Damn it, Tanner, give a man some warning next time, will you?"

Actually, it should have been really disturbing, because usually people didn't sneak up on Chris Larabee unnoticed, at least not on a sober Chris Larabee, but for some reason it wasn't. Annoying, yes, disturbing – no. Another reason he should get Tanner on his team.

Meanwhile, the Texan just shrugged and gave a mischievous grin. "So, you need a hand here?"

Chris made an inviting gesture. "Be my guest."

With a chuckle, Tanner joined him. The man clearly knew his way around a barn, because he started doing what needed to be done without further questions.

"Heard you wanted to talk with me," he offered ten minutes later.

"Yeah, I do. I'm recruiting men for a new type of ATF team, and I have an open position with your name on it." Chris then went into details, laughing to himself inwardly. So far he'd given 'the team speech' in a café in Albuquerque, in the cafeteria of a court house, and now he was giving it in his own barn; what interesting settings. What would be next, a beach in Florida?

Tanner did indeed know his way around a barn, so by the time Chris finished his speech and answered a couple of general questions, the main chores were done.

"So, are you interested?" Chris asked, when they both stepped outside.

Vin turned away, staring into the sky for a few moments, then glancing at the hills, before finally turning back to face Chris. "Is there a chance we'll be able to get some guns off Denver's streets in between savings of the world?"

Chris had a feeling there was something very personal for Vin in taking guns off the streets, but he filed it away to think about later. "I hope so," he answered seriously.

"Then I'm in."

Smiling, Chris outstretched his hand for a deal-sealing shake, but Vin seized his forearm in an old warrior's grasp instead; the kind Chris had only seen before in movies. Something inside of him reacted to this, it felt right, like the gesture was telling him everything would be okay.

"Care for some breakfast?" Chris asked casually, after the handclasp finally ended. "Not as good as Nettie's, I'm afraid, but still edible."

Tanner laughed. "Sure. 'An extra meal won't do any harm', as Nettie says. You have coffee?"

"Plenty."

"Then lead the way."


	5. Chapter 5

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

"Hey, baby! Did you miss me?" Buck smiled and blew a kiss to the country girl pictured on the 'Welcome to Colorado' sign as he passed the border between states. "She missed me," he confidently told his shotgun passenger, but the latter, Buck's court suit, didn't answer. That didn't embarrass Buck any, and, whistling loudly, he continued on his way.

It was a warm Friday evening and Buck Wilmington was coming back to Denver, only a week and a half after his conversation with Chris in that café. The speed with which all of the paperwork had been organized really amazed him; Larabee's boss sure knew what buttons to push. Buck's captain from Albuquerque PD had expressed regret at losing such a good detective, but hadn't tossed any obstacles in the way of the transfer. So, those of Buck's cases which couldn't be finished in a few days had been reassigned, and a huge farewell bash had been thrown for him on Wednesday. Buck had used Thursday to sleep off the work party, as well as several other private festivities from later that day, and to pack up the few possessions he had that he hadn't wanted to leave behind. He had been loaded and on the road before noon Friday, and come Monday, he would start working for Chris Larabee at the ATF.

Fortunately, he wouldn't have to look for a place to live as the loft he'd bought ten years ago was still his; he hadn't sold it when he'd transferred out. Maybe, because he had hoped to come back one day, or, maybe, because he'd known a couple willing to rent it and hadn't wanted to bother with finding a buyer. In any case, he'd leased the loft to the couple, and they'd been renting ever since. Their contract was up next week, and, as Buck had realized the day after he'd accepted Chris's offer, they hadn't asked to prolong it. As it turned out, the couple was moving to another state; Buck couldn't help but see that as a sign. A damn good one, too. So, he only needed a place to stay for a few days before they vacated the loft, that wouldn't be a problem. At least, he hoped not.

He had several options, including old buddies from DPD who had couches. There was also his little black book, and he was sure that at least a dozen ladies from there would gladly welcome him. Of course, he could always stay in a hotel, but Buck hated those with a passion. And then there was Chris's ranch. With that thought Buck stopped whistling and left the highway for the next rest area. He needed to think.

He did want to see Chris at the ranch as that was the only way to really appraise Chris's current state of mind. On the other hand, him staying at the ranch, like in the good (and bad) old times, might be really pushing it, and not only for Chris but for Buck himself as well. A half an hour of such musings, and Buck still hadn't decided if it was a good or bad idea; to hell with it, after all, if Chris didn't want to see him at the ranch, he just wouldn't offer. So Buck fished out his cell and, reminding himself to put Chris's numbers back on speed dial, called the man.

"Larabee."

"Hey, Old Dog. You haven't managed to get out of the office yet?"

"Buck! Nah, I'm still here. And where are you?"

"Just entered the fair state of Colorado a few miles back."

"That's good. You're heading straight to the loft?"

He could have said yes, but Buck had never learned to lie to Chris successfully, even about simple things. "Nah, the Rowans don't leave until Wednesday."

"Oh. Then where are you staying?"

"Don't know yet, was thinking about **-**"

Chris cut him off. "If you're not willing to drive into the city, you're welcome to stay at the ranch."

Well, the ranch was indeed in the right side of Denver for someone driving from New Mexico. "That'd be great," Buck answered and then added in a softer voice: "If it's okay with you."

"It is," Chris said firmly. "Call me when you're close. I doubt I'll get stuck at work today, but anything's possible, you know?"

"Yeah, I do, pard. See you soon."

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

Chris's house looked much better than the last time Buck had seen it. Of course, it wasn't as lovely as when it had a lady, but at least it was definitely being looked after now. Chris had even redecorated some – the living room was completely different at least - which was probably for the best.

They managed to spend the Friday evening without any awkward moments, drinking beer and discussing the future team, and Buck went to bed with a light heart**.** His sleep was free of nightmares, and he hoped Chris's was, too.

Saturday was spent driving around to reacquaint Buck with the differences in the pulse of Denver's city life. He wanted to learn what had changed and explore the area around the Federal Building. On Sunday they went riding, and the situation was almost too good to be true.

They were thinking about turning back to the house when a loud whistle rang out. Looking in the direction of the sound Buck saw a rider waving at them from atop a brown horse.

"Must be Tanner," Chris observed, heading his horse to meet the man. Buck followed, his curiosity piqued. He'd known, of course, that Chris had already hired two more people – a chemist and a sniper **-** who would also be starting work on Monday. He also knew that the sniper, Vin Tanner, was considered family by Nettie Wells. But Chris was suspiciously vague about other details, like how he'd come across the men, so Buck had been looking forward to meeting them and getting the full story out of Tanner or Jackson.

They caught up with the rider, who indeed was Tanner, and Chris made introductions. Tanner's outfit showed his recent Texan roots, and he had his long dark blond curls tied in a loose ponytail. The look made him resemble a teenager, but when Buck met his eyes for a second, he realized that this kid had seen a lot, probably more than Buck himself.

"So, Vin," he asked after they had ridden for a while. "Are you going to stay at Nettie's place?"

"Nah, got myself apartment in town already."

"Where?"

"Chamber's street."

Buck almost choked. "In Purgatorio?"

Tanner didn't seem surprised by his reaction. "Yeah, I grew up on those streets. You have something against that?"

Touchy one. Or maybe just real direct. "Hell no, knew a few decent men from there myself. It's just, they're usually doing their best to get out of that place. I was sure no sane person would ever want to go back there."

"Well, I never claimed I was sane," Vin said, deadly serious. "But if that quality was a requirement for the new team, then the Cowboy here sure wouldn't be commanding it."

Buck nearly choked again; damn it, but the kid had a point! The most amazing thing though, was that Chris didn't deck him from the horse for that comment, just laughed instead! And it was a real laugh, not bitter or sarcastic or threatening. So maybe to Chris this team wasn't about catching a bullet for noble reasons , or doing the right thing, or just a means to survive, maybe this team truly was about living again? And if this lanky Texan was somehow responsible for that – then, hell, he'd better not get himself shot in that damn neighborhood of his!


	6. Chapter 6

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

After the first, extremely successful, round of recruiting Chris found himself stuck. He'd read lots of files and resumes, and interviewed more than a dozen people, but as of now, a month after he'd started, his team still only had three members besides himself. However, those three were more than merely proficient, they were talented, and they made up the core of his team.

They already felt at home within the ATF and had acted a couple of times as back-up for other units. They had also started researching the local big players; taking down any of them could become their first case. Chris really wanted to find at least one more man (or woman, he wasn't biased in that regard) for the team before that. Alas, the candidate he'd just talked to wasn't cut from the right cloth – too much of a careerist. Larabee got rid of him politely, and, disappointed, went to find some place for lunch. Chris was of the opinion that he should enjoy the opportunity for a normal lunch while he could, he had a feeling that once they started the real work it wouldn't be possible very often anymore.

He ended up at the newest Chinese place in the area; not surprisingly, he saw Vin and Nathan at one of the tables, so he joined them. Buck must be charming a waitress or hostess somewhere else.

"So," Vin asked once Chris had settled. "How was the interview?"

Chris made a face instead of answering, and Vin chuckled. "About the same as the previous ones, I reckon?"

"Yeah, so let's talk about something else, boys."

Vin shrugged, grinning, but Nathan must have had another subject already in mind. "I wanted to ask, Chris, if you've seen that memo about the open lectures that are held Fridays at the University?"

"Yeah, I read it, though I'm afraid I overlooked the actual schedule. You want to attend them?"

"I wouldn't say 'them', but I'd like to go this Friday, if that's okay with you."

"Forensics or Medicine?" Vin asked, curious.

"Neither, actually, it's on Profiling, but an old friend of mine is giving it."

"Profiling?" Nathan nodded. Now that sounded interesting. Profiling was on Chris's list of desired skills, though it wasn't popular within the ATF - most believed profilers were needed only when it came to catching serial killers. But Chris had seen a couple of times what a real profiler could do for a case, any case, and they really could use one. "Who's this friend?"

"His name's Josiah Sanchez, we met at a college."

"Josiah Sanchez?" Vin even stopped rocking in his highly-not-suitable-for-such chair. "The one who caught Bill Primes?"

"Yes, that was him."

Vin whistled, and Chris was sure impressed, too. Bill Primes was one hell of a sick bastard, and it had taken the FBI five years to catch him. The man who'd finally managed to do it must be more than good…

"He still working for the FBI?" Chris heard himself asking.

"Nah, he retired a few years back."

"Didn't think he was that old," Vin mused aloud.

"He isn't. Just said he'd had enough and wanted to work on his doctorate." Nathan finished replying, then watched Vin and Chris exchange a look…and suddenly realized what they were thinking about. "But you know what, guys? I bet he's pretty bored by now."

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

Josiah Sanchez, a retired FBI agent and Vietnam veteran with a PhD in Psychology, who was currently working on his doctorate in sociology, was actually quite satisfied with his lecture. He was in fine form, the room was full, and the audience was even attentive and interested. Some of those present even stayed after the lecture to ask questions, good ones at that, and any other day he would be delighted. Today though, Josiah would have preferred there wasn't anyone lingering because his old friend, Nathan Jackson, was here and waiting for him to be done.

Actually, Sanchez hadn't really been sure if Nathan would show up, with his new job and all, but the medic had come, though he was accompanied by a grim-looking blond. Finally, the last of the curious students left the room, and Nathan and his companion came forward.

"Good lecture, Josiah," Nathan said, outstretching his hand.

"Thank you, brother," the profiler answered, shaking the hand and slapping Jackson on his shoulder. "Glad you could come."

Nathan nodded. "Yeah, me too. Josiah, this is my new boss, Chris Larabee, a federal agent with the ATF. Chris, Josiah Sanchez."

"This really was an interesting lecture," Larabee said, after they shook and agreed to be on a first name basis. "Though not what I'd call a traditional approach."

Josiah laughed. "Well, I was never very good at being conventional."

The blond smiled. "Could we continue this discussion over lunch?"

"Wonderful idea."

They went to a nice little Italian restaurant nearby, and had a pleasant lunch; by the time Chris Larabee took his leave, giving the two old friends an opportunity to catch up, Josiah Sanchez had a job offer. By the time he and Nathan parted their ways that evening, he'd decided to accept it. He truly had missed the adrenaline of field work, and he missed working with law enforcement. And if his gut wasn't lying, and it rarely did, then the current and future members of Larabee's team would be very unusual individuals; a dream come true for any student of human nature…

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

With five members Larabee's team, now officially called Team Seven, was a functioning unit, so they received their first official case. They were assigned to investigate a white supremacist group that was based in Denver and led by someone known as The Colonel. The guys were relieved to finally be trusted with a real case; they began by digging up background information on those involved and building profiles.

Chris was going through preliminary reports on the group when he got interrupted by a phone call. It was from Travis's office.

"Chris, I have an application that might interest you," the AD said after their usual greetings. "Shelly will forward you the details, call me after you've read it."

"I will, sir, thank you."

Despite the fact that the team was already operational, Chris was still looking for at least two more men – an undercover agent and a computer specialist - to fill the rest of the skill areas he drew up at the launch of this crazy, ground-breaking squad.

The good old times of suitcases full of cash being brought to exchanges were ending; these days, money often changed hands in cyber space, thus Chris really needed someone at home there. Well, at home but not completely lost in the virtual reality, and so far Chris couldn't find that man. Perhaps he was asking too much, after all, he'd already managed to find both a profiler and a forensic with field experience, and that alone was a damn miracle. But who knows, maybe there was another miracle waiting in his mail… first, however, he had to finish going over those files.

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

"So, Chris, what do you think?" Travis asked when Chris called him later that day.

"Good credentials, but, sir, he's only 24."

"True, but do you know the age of the last hacker to be caught by the FBI? Fifteen. It's the province of the young."

"I know, but…"

"I know your concerns, Chris, but that boy isn't just a geek. He'd been a street cop in a poor neighborhood in Boston for three years. People grow up fast there."

That was a powerful argument in his favor, but John Dunne was still a rookie and Chris wasn't sure he wanted to chance the possible trouble having one on the team could cause.

"I talked to him, Chris, and to his supervisors in Boston. Give the kid a chance. I'll still have a position for him in our division even if he doesn't fit on your team. Computer geniuses rarely choose to work for law enforcement, you know."

It was the first time Travis had actually asked him to take somebody on board, before he'd just offered resumes. Chris had no real reasons to refuse a probationary period – especially when he needed a computer specialist.

"I need to see him first, sir."

"Thanks, Chris. He'll be here next week, I'll send him straight to you."

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

John 'call-me-J.D.' Dunne appeared in Team Seven's office first thing on Tuesday morning: looking not a day older than 18, talking a mile a minute and unable to sit still if he wasn't fully occupied with work, and carrying a serious case of hero worship when it came to Chris. But the kid did know his way around computers – and not only computers.

Buck had, at first, been sure that Chris had taken the kid on only to placate Travis and that nothing good, or permanent, would come of it. He changed his mind real quick once J.D. convinced the surveillance expert to let him in the new team's surveillance van.

"Damn, Chris, that boy has promise!" Buck said afterwards. "Might even grow up to become a fine agent one day."

Chris was skeptical, but the next day Dunne brought him a file. It contained a detailed analysis of the van's equipment in comparison with the current state of the art stuff out on the market, complete with recommendations on which devices replacements should be bought for and which of the older models were more reliable, or convenient, and should be kept. It also had a detailed write up regarding which electronics were needed for which cases. And everything written was completely understandable to Chris, plus he bet it would look reasonable enough to pass budget restrictions too.

Hell, it looked like the kid had already earned his first paycheck, but Chris still needed to evaluate his fieldwork in order to make the final decision on whether or not he'd become a permanent member of Team Seven.


	7. Chapter 7

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

The new case was speeding up, and now Chris needed an agent to send undercover into The Colonel's operation, and needed one badly. Of course, both Buck and himself had some experience undercover, and Vin also had some familiarity in that area, but Chris wanted someone with talent, proper training, and real experience, not just the couple of short stints the three of them had under their belts. The problem was that good undercover agents were a rare breed; and very difficult to re-recruit. So Chris was ready to just temporarily take a loan of someone worthy from one of their sister agencies; maybe later it would be possible to organize a permanent transfer, if everything worked out.

He'd had Travis send him another bunch of resumes, of undercovers who were available for loan this time, and the leader of Team Seven was going through them now, trying to decide which one to read first. A familiar name suddenly caught his attention: Ezra P. Standish from Atlanta's FBI office. Now, where had he heard that name before? Chris leaned back in his chair, trying to remember…but of course - the Ludlow case.

It had been his second case with the ATF; he'd been after a guy who made his living by selling illegal cigarettes. Then the guy had decided that he wanted to be part of a bigger organization, and, as a result of his extraordinary timing, Chris had suddenly found himself part of big joint operation where not only the ATF but both the FBI and the DEA were involved. He'd spent a lot of time on surveillance then, watching the main players, and he'd known the FBI had a man on the inside, had even made some assumptions about who he might be, but he would never ever have pegged Joseph Carrboro as being a Fed.

Later, after the operation had been successfully completed, he'd met Standish during the debriefings; the man had nothing in common with Carrboro at all, save for height and build. And the amount of information he obtained…considering Standish's age he wasn't just good – he was one of the best. Yet now he was available for loan and even for transfer? Hell, if Chris had an agent like that he would never let him go, so something was definitely wrong. Chris opened the file hoping to learn what exactly was amiss.

Harvard directly followed by Quantico: impressive. List of commendations, each one paired with a reprimand or two, Chris chuckled at the deja-vu, though it seemed Standish had more problems with discipline than Tanner and Wilmington combined. Misconduct, lack of respect to proper authorities, and so on, but the guy got results that justified it all, so what changed? Oh, here it began** -** a case had fallen through. IA had investigated but nothing had been proven, and soon Standish had been sent under again – and had been shot on a bust under unclear circumstances. Damn. Loaning him out had begun after that: one case with Miami's FBI, one in California**,** and the current one back in Atlanta with the DEA, which should be finished any day now.

"Okay, so what do we have here?" Chris mused out loud, closing the folder. The story was more or less obvious, and Chris didn't like it a single bit. Alas, undercover agents did tend to cross the line a little too often, and though personally Chris was sure Standish was, at the very least, too damn proud to be one of those, he didn't really know the man all that well. All of these facts needed checking and he needed more information regarding the whole situation. The team leader opened the folder again and looked through the list of recent cases; yeah, his clearance should be high enough to retrieve those files. Of course, the case files were only half of the picture, as for the second half…maybe it was time to test some of Agent Dunne's computer abilities.

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

Two days later Chris Larabee knew two things: first, J.D. Dunne was damn good at fact finding; second, Agent Standish's colleagues and, especially, his supervisors in Atlanta's FBI were either considerable assholes or complete idiots, and he didn't know which version pissed him off more.

Nevertheless, when it came to possibly recruiting Standish Chris had his doubts; not about whether Standish was dirty or not, or whether he was good enough for the team – on both accounts Chris was more than satisfied **- ** but did Standish wish to continue working for the government after all the shit of the past year? Could he become a team player, especially for a rather unique team like Team Seven?

"You won't get them answers sitting here, stud," Buck said when Chris shared his concerns with his second. "Fly to Atlanta. Talk to him; listen to your gut. If he seems okay then take him on loan for this case, and if things work out we'll try for a permanent transfer. If they don't," Buck shrugged. "Then they don't; won't know unless we try."

Chris sighed. "Sounds rather obvious, doesn't it?"

Buck chuckled. "Hey, Larabee, it's in my job description to tell you obvious things you already know."

Chris laughed at that and nodded. Well, it looked like a trip to Georgia was in his immediate future; he just hoped the team wouldn't be needed as back-up or somethingwhile he was away. Of course, he trusted Buck and the others, but still…

"Keep an eye on the kid, will you? You may be right about him having promise, don't want something stupid to happen."

"You can count on me, boss."

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

Ezra Standish parked his Jaguar in the last spot in the area belonging to his department, retrieved his briefcase from the back seat, and stepped out of his vehicle, locking the car as he left. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he headed to the elevators; it was his first day back, and, frankly, he didn't expect anything good from it.

He'd finished his work for the DEA last week. He had gathered all of the information they had wanted and they had thanked him politely and sent him back to his home office, without bothering to tell him what they were going to do with said information. Ezra was half sure that when it came to actual arrests, his name wouldn't even appear on the reports. '_Okay, Ezra, quit feeling sorry for yourself!_' he chastised himself silently. In fact, he was probably being unfair to DEA SAC Reynolds; the man had organized adequate back-up and had pulled him out safely, something Ezra had stopped taking for granted long ago.

He rode alone in the elevator, but when left it the lobby was already full of his coworkers; most of them he knew, but they were hesitant in acknowledging him. So nothing had changed then, though he hadn't really thought anything would. His common sense repeated to him once again that it was time to fold and leave the table, figuratively speaking, to quit before he ended up being killed due to incompetence, indifferent back-up, or friendly fire. Or before AD Williams finally found a good enough formal reason to just fire his ass.

In the middle of these thoughts, Ezra found himself facing the wall that was just behind the entrance. The Wall was adorned with pictures of agents who had been killed in the line of duty. There was a grey-haired man in the third photo in the most recent row that seemed to be watching him intently; with an internal sigh, the young agent put on his best cocky smile. _Don't worry, Phil._ _I won't give up._ And he wouldn't make it easy for Williams to fire him either, Ezra thought, entering his office precisely at 8:50 a.m.

An urgent message from Williams' office waited for him in his mailbox; he was expected there at noon today. Either the AD had finally found that damn reason, or he already had a new assignment for him, as far from Atlanta as was possible. Either way, he had three more hours at his disposal, better make use of them.

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

Exactly at noon Ezra made his way into a smaller conference room off of Williams' office. Besides the AD, there was another person at the table – a lean blond in a black suit, his face familiar. In his business having a good memory for faces was often a question of life or death, so Ezra lingered a few seconds at the door, remembering where he'd seen the man before . The blond was definitely a law enforcement officer of some kind, but not an FBI agent; met not recently, but not too long ago either, and not in Atlanta…bingo. The Ludlow case a couple of years ago in Denver, he was one of the ATF agents. The name was…Larabee. Yes, Larabee, though Ezra didn't know his first name and didn't remember if he had formed an opinion about the man back then. Most likely, he had not. So it seemed that now the ATF had some dirty work for him. Well, why not?

Ezra put on his 'polite' smile, the one he knew irritated Williams to no end, and came forward.

"Good day, sir," he greeted the AD and then turned to Larabee. "Agent Larabee, nice to see you again. Hope you're enjoying your time in our fair city." The blond agent nodded in return, not showing any surprise that Ezra recognized him, but for Williams it was news.

"You two know each other?" he asked, like he wasn't pleased with that fact.

"Yes," Larabee answered flatly. "We met briefly after the Ludlow case."

"Ah, of course. There is no need for introductions then. Standish, Agent Larabee and his team are investigating a white supremacist group in Denver, and they asked for your assistance."

'_And you readily agreed_,' Ezra continued mentally, but out loud he said nothing.

"Well, gentlemen," Williams added, standing up, "I'll leave you to discuss the details."

As the AD was leaving the room Ezra suddenly got the impression that Larabee didn't like Williams much and that the feeling was mutual; actually, it looked like Williams was slightly afraid of the ATF agent. Strange, and interesting.

As it turned out, Larabee was now the leader of a sort of experimental team, and investigating that supremacist group was their first real case; they needed someone to infiltrate the group. Well, it looked like he would be getting a chance to practice his native accent. The case itself sounded more or less ordinary, but Larabee sure was not. For starters, the man had bothered to fly all the way to Atlanta himself, and second, he was talking about the case as if Ezra could actually refuse it. Maybe the blond was naive, or maybe that really was how things worked in the world of Agent Larabee … definitely not how they worked in the world of Agent Standish though. Ezra knew he didn't have a choice, but in this particular case he didn't mind all that much. The case was interesting, it had been a long while since he'd been that far west, and, honestly, he was intrigued by Larabee. '_Damn, need to learn the man's first name._' Not that he planned to use it.

"Mr. Larabee, it will be a pleasure to work with your unit. When should I arrive in Denver?"

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

It was really late, but Chris still made a detour for the Federal Building while driving home from the airport. Despite the hour, there was a light on in the team's bullpen; Chris wasn't at all surprised, though, when he'd called the office from Atlanta, everyone had intended to go home early.

Entering the office, Chris, as he'd expected, found his second-in-command sitting with his legs propped up on his desk and totally engrossed in some magazine. A very Buck type of magazine, it seemed.

"Evening, Buck," Chris said, coming close; startled, Buck had a problem with keeping his balance, but managed not to fall.

"Hell, Chris, you taking sneak lessons from Tanner now?"

Chris just blinked at him with an absolutely innocent expression, then he raised an eyebrow at the magazine; Buck didn't blush, of course, but hastened to hide it among the papers on his desktop. "What are you doing here, anyway? Thought you'd drive straight home."

"Could ask you the same thing," Chris shrugged and headed to his office, to get rid of some of the paperwork from his briefcase. Buck, naturally, followed.

"So," he asked, half-sitting on Chris's desk. "What should we expect on Monday, is this new guy an interesting one?"

Chris gave a short laugh. "Oh, yeah, interesting is a good way to put it. You'll see for yourself. Though you might want to buy a dictionary, certainly wouldn't hurt."

"That bad, huh?" Buck grinned.

"Yup. So, what happened here while I was gone?"

It was Buck's turn to shrug. "Nothing outstanding. Josiah and Nate think they're onto something, they'll tell you tomorrow. Oh, and you can put a permanent address in the kid's file now."

That got Chris's attention. "Really?" Dunne was currently staying in some sort of 'dormitory for federal agents', and was looking for a place to move into after his first paycheck. But that hadn't happened yet, so…

"Really," Buck gave a hand-written note with the address to Chris, and the senior agent immediately recognized the address as Buck's own. Oh. Well, Chris knew Buck's loft had two bedrooms, and the man would appreciate being able to split the bills and what was left of his mortgage, but that almost certainly wasn't the real reason for the move. Buck had most likely decided to take the lad under his wing, and that was probably a good thing. JD needed a teacher, and Buck had always been good with rookies, much better than Chris anyway. And he was not just a good teacher, Buck was a natural caretaker who needed someone to look after; so maybe it was a good arrangement all the way round. Time would tell.

"You know, Buck, when I said to keep an eye on the kid, I didn't mean 24/7."

"Hell, Chris, I have a feeling he'll need it!"


	8. Chapter 8

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

It was raining outside again and the room was darkening fast. Sighing, Chris stood up and went to turn on the light. On his way back to his seat he realized that stretching a bit was probably a good idea. His back had its own opinion about sitting behind a desk all day and was now voicing it quite loudly. As he straightened out of a bend he took a long look at his desk, which was buried under a huge pile of papers; he gave a disgusted snort and instead of returning to the desk went to the window to watch the rain for a while.

After four and a half months of hard work they had finally finished their first case last week. The final bust had been so impressive that it was quickly becoming a legend among the force. Chris himself had already heard three versions about how exactly the bust had gone down, each more fantastic than the one before. The truth was hidden somewhere in the papers on his desk: six bound reports from his men and a number of printouts speckled with blue marks – the current draft of his own final report.

With effort, Chris turned his gaze away from said reports to the street outside his window. The sight was actually rather dull, but he liked the sound of the rain. It was the only sound in the Team Seven office at the moment; yesterday Chris had given his men three days off. They needed rest, and he…well, he needed peace and quiet to write his damn reports - one on the case and the other one on the team. Their probationary period was over, for individual members as well as for the team in general. All in all, Chris had been pleased with how the team had come together.

The guys possessed a wide array of skills and balanced each other perfectly – not just in said skills, but in character traits as well. Of course, there were still some edges that needed smoothing, some issues that needed working out, and it would take them some time to become a well oiled machine, but they had the potential for it. A couple more cases and they'd be even better than the last team Chris had led in the SEALs: capable of understanding him and each other in the field without words, no matter the situation. Hell, Buck and Vin could already do it, at least when it came to Chris. Buck due to the past he shared with his boss, and Vin due to… well, he just could. Anyway, they all had something really good starting with this team. Lately, Buck had even stopped looking at him every other day like he could fall apart at any minute; more importantly, Chris had stopped fearing he would fall apart the minute he let go.

Thinking of Buck reminded him how the big guy had been by earlier in the day, despite his busy schedule of 'catching up with the ladies.' He had tried to be subtle and act casually, but it was obvious he was fretting – the way Chris's mother, Maggie Larabee, had fretted when her girls had been awaiting the results of their exams **-** Chris had enjoyed feigning ignorance for a while, but soon had laughed out loud and told Buck to stop worrying: JD Dunne _had_ a permanent position on Team Seven. Chris smiled, remembering Buck's whoop of joy; the smile faded when he thought about the other team member whose fate had yet to be decided. Standish. Running a hand through his hair tiredly, Chris went back to his desk.

The southern agent sure had an attitude, all right. His tongue was sharper than some of Nathan's favorite knives, and his ideas on discipline were uncommon at best, but he'd never crossed the line. And he got the job done, so Chris was ready to overlook the small things – but what had happened at the bust hadn't been small. The soon-to-be-legendary bust hadn't gone as planned. Far from it. The only consolation was that what had started the disaster hadn't been their mistake – either in the planning stage or at the scene – but something that couldn't be foreseen. What had followed…

Chris rubbed his wrists unconsciously. Damn, being captured was an experience he didn't care to repeat. The events that had led to him and most of his men being captured had began with Standish not being where he should have been. Then, dangerously close to the proverbial last minute, he'd appeared from out of nowhere and had provided enough distraction for Chris to free himself. Not ten minutes later the tables had been turned against the bad guys. Later, after Chris had studied all the reports, looked over the evidence from the scene, and taken statements from those who agreed to talk, he'd realized it must have been an error in judgment on Standish's part, not an act of cowardice.

It was likely, that, if Standish hadn't made that mistake they could have ended the operation faster and there would have been less casualties among the Colonel's followers (and some of them had just been confused kids). But Chris had seen too much action to state that for sure, it easily could have gone either way. He was damn glad he hadn't jumped to conclusions at the scene, and, though there had been some harsh words said in the heat of the moment, nothing had been said or done that needed to be taken back now. However, the main question was still unanswered – did Chris trust Ezra Standish enough to have him on board permanently?

Chris's musings were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the bullpen**.** It seemed that someone from the team had decided to drop by. It could have been anyone, even Buck coming back, but somehow Chris knew it was Vin. So he said, loud enough to be heard through the closed door:

"You may as well come in."

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

Vin hadn't planned on dropping by the office today, but he'd been checking a new bike shop in the area (he was seriously disappointed, by the way), and when he'd stopped to grab something to eat, he had realized that he was only a couple of blocks from the Federal Building. So he bought several huge sandwiches and a bag of donuts, and headed to the office to eat with Larabee. Knowing Chris, he'd probably gotten buried in reports and forgotten about lunch altogether.

Vin laughed at himself after that thought; hell, before this team he hadn't been in the habit of worrying if a grown man had eaten. Nathan must be rubbing off on him; or, since it was about Chris, it might have been Buck. Yeah, definitely Buck's fault.

After Vin had started to work with Chris and the others, it had taken him a couple of weeks to gather – from rumors in the Agency, his own observations, and Nettie's stories - the full picture of Larabee's past. He had gotten the feeling that the place he was taking in Chris's life had actually belonged to someone else. And Vin had always despised stealing in any form. Buck must have sensed his growing unease because when Chris had gone to Atlanta he'd invited the sharpshooter to a bar. They had talked a lot and drunk even more, so of all that had been said, Vin remembered clearly only one phrase: '_Watching Larabee's back is a tough job, Junior, and I may be a little out of practice, so I sure do appreciate having a partner in that._' And, once Vin had overcome his hangover, he'd stopped worrying on the subject.

Vin stopped his reminiscence once he'd arrived at their floor. Opening the door with his hands full of food and a bike helmet was a challenge, but he managed. He put the helmet on his desk and was trying to decide if he wanted coffee or soda to go with those sandwiches, when he heard Chris's voice inviting him in.

"Soda, then." Grabbing two cans from his ever-present stash in one of the desk drawers, he added them to the bag and went into Larabee's office.

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

Vin came bearing food, and Chris suddenly realized that he was starving – forgetting about lunch probably hadn't been a good idea. So, for the next twenty minutes they sat in comfortable silence on the couch using the coffee table to dine upon. Soon after they finished, Vin asked:

"Have you decided yet?"

Chris didn't need to ask what Vin meant, and that was rather spooky considering he'd been thinking on the subject just before Tanner's arrival.

"No, I haven't. I need to be sure about what brought this on… and that it won't happen again."

Vin sighed and then raised his gaze from an empty soda can to Chris's eyes .

"Old habits die hard, Chris. He's used to being on his own and working alone - I could have done the same thing."

"You didn't."

"I could have," Vin repeated. "Contrary to popular belief, sometimes the good things take even more time to get used to than the bad."

"You're saying he'll learn?"

"I'm saying he's worth it."

Silence followed that declaration, the quiet only interrupted by the beeping of Vin's cell. Vin read the message on it and swore.

"Damn it, I got to go." He extracted another bag from inside the big brown one and put it on the coffee table. The small bag bore the symbol of the nearest bakery. "I'll leave the donuts to you, they say sugar is good for the brain." And he disappeared from the office before Chris could come up with a suitable comeback.


	9. Chapter 9

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

It was midday Thursday, the third and final day off that Larabee had given to his team, and Ezra sat on the sofa in the main room of his apartment thinking thoughts he didn't want to think. He'd avoided thinking the previous two days by actually sleeping through them, so exhausted that even nightmares had stayed away. Now, however, he was wide awake, shifting his stare between his bookcase and a few empty moving boxes scattered around the floor. It was time to pack, but he couldn't bring himself to begin.

He'd rented the apartment and had his books and CDs shipped over from Atlanta during his first week in Denver, when it had become clear that the case would take serious time. The few other possessions he'd accumulated through the years, barring clothing, were currently stowed away in some storage facility back in Georgia, waiting for a, most likely never coming, time when he'd own his own home. He always took books and CDs with him. They grounded him; helped him remember his own identity, his own tastes and likings, and helped sell the illusion of someone waiting for him in the evenings.

With a sigh, Ezra got up and went to the bookcase. He ran his hand over the spines stopping at the large, and expensive, biography of Joseph Turner, one of his favorite artists. He slid it out with both hands and carried it back to the sofa. Opening the tome randomly he saw a reproduction of 'The Harbor of Dieppe' printed on the page and stared at it, his mind wandering off.

Mr. Larabee had mentioned early on that there was a permanent position on the team for someone with his skills, and after they finished the case, it could be his – if he fit in. At first, Ezra had completely dismissed the idea – Ezra Standish, fit in? That was an oxymoron. But as time had passed, he'd found he liked Larabee and his men, liked them more than any other team he'd worked with, and he wanted to be a part of their group. All right, so being a part of something might not be in his agenda at all, but he wanted to work with them, and for a while it had even seemed possible. Larabee had been satisfied with the results he got, and the rest of the team, though not exactly thrilled with the idea, hadn't seemed to mind him staying on after the case too much. And then he'd blown it.

The strangest thing about the whole mess at the bust was that it might have been the first time he'd actually been given the benefit of the doubt – despite the fact that he _had_ been at fault. There had been some tense moments during the operation, but once the dust had cleared, Larabee had asked for Ezra's side. And the questions really had been questions, not accusations. It had felt nice. Maybe it was because of that, that the last stubborn shred of hope refused to die inside Ezra's heart. '_Don't ever run out on me again_,' Larabee had demanded in that compound, and the word 'again' implied that there might be a future. Ezra had readily given the leader his promise, silent as it had been, and was determined to keep it if… the southern agent shook his head. '_Damn it, Standish, you are too old to believe in miracles._'

And yet, no matter what tomorrow would bring, Ezra knew he would be forever grateful for his time with Team Seven. The last four months were probably one of the best periods in his adult life; sure, the assignment itself had been hard and tiring, both physically and emotionally, but working with Larabee's men… even the simple fact that such men existed in law enforcement made him warm inside. Maybe that knowledge would be enough to keep him going after tomorrow.

Ezra looked at the bookcase and boxes one more time before deciding that they could wait. Larabee had ordered them to rest and relax, and it was a good idea to obey that order, especially if it was the last one he'd ever receive from the man in black. With that thought, Ezra turned the book to the beginning and tried to lose himself in what he read.

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

At precisely 9 a.m. on Friday, Chris heard a knock at his office door.

"Come in," he said, and Standish entered, wearing exactly the same face he had during their first meeting in Atlanta all those months ago. It was clear the man wasn't expecting anything good.

Without any more words, Chris nodded to the papers on the edge of his desk which were lying so Ezra wouldn't need to turn them around to understand them. Standish came close, looked at the papers, flipped through them, and then raised his head, obviously confused:

"What are they?"

"Your permanent transfer to the ATF, Agent Standish."

It took the southerner a few moments to comprehend the words, but when he did, his damn poker face finally slipped, and Chris saw the man beneath the mask – one who'd lost all hope long ago, and had a very hard time believing in miracles.

"Permanent?" he asked, blinking. It seemed he'd forgotten the meaning of that word.

"Yes," Chris said softly, but seriously. "Permanent. You'll be all ours, Ezra, if you want it."

Ezra looked at the papers again, but not before Chris noticed the unusual brightness in his eyes, then looked up and gave that dimpled smile, the one which made him look like a teenager.

"Where do I sign?"

~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~

Assistant Director Orrin Travis stood before a large window in the Denver airport, waiting for his flight to start boarding, and not even the fact that he was going to Washington, DC, could spoil his good mood. It was the first sunny day after two weeks of constant rain and a huge rainbow was shining across the sky. _'Maybe them old tales got it right,_'Orrin mused, admiring the view. _'Seven truly was a lucky number.' _

It seemed unbelievable and impossible, but it had worked. The crazy idea about putting together a special team under Larabee's command had worked, and though Travis had yet to report about it officially, unofficially he'd already received a few congratulations **… **and a big pack of antacids from an old friend at Denver's DA Office. Orrin got a feeling he'd run out of them soon enough, but Team Seven was worth all the headaches they caused and would be causing; like that rainbow out there made up for the rainy days. The grey-haired man smiled, thinking of another gift that had mysteriously appeared on his desk earlier in the week. A collectors edition of "The Magnificent Seven". Well, the nickname was already spreading through the ATF, and, after re-watching the movie with Evie, Travis had to admit it was more than fitting. The legend rides again, indeed. The next few years would be fairly interesting….

**The End**

PS

DJ Aida made wonderful banners for this story, you can see them at LJ-community mag7bigbang, posts from the 22nd of November, 2010, or in her own LJ (dj-aida), post from the 27th of November, 2010.


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